Por Dentro de La Vida

He left, he left without saying a word,
Why bother with words,
If no one gives him reason,
To the opinion of a countryman,
Who imposes on others,
What one is thinking.

He left without saying words,
Because he was tired already,
Of going through life,
Without having a little something,
Even if it was just a bit,
To not go shoeless.

Because in the end everyone takes over,
But the poor devil endures,
And as it is a clean fight,
The flanks look like rags.
No one skimps on brine,
When it's another's back, the cut.

He left, he left without saying a word,
It's not a matter of crying,
Tears are very personal,
To go around showing them,
Because there's no way to be,
More poor or unfortunate,
Than when one shows a tear,
So they know you've cried,
And inside compassion,
To be won over softly.

A true man doesn't live,
On borrowed honor,
When he has exchanged his own,
For a bone without disgust.

He left, he left without saying a word,
Rotten from skinny dogs,
That bark to not get bored,
At the flight of a bird.

Tired of seeing so much shadow,
In the hope of another year,
That leaves from within oneself,
Heading towards disillusionment.

He doesn't want to plow anymore,
Because his spirit has died,
And in the cracks of his fingers,
Thistles have grown.

He left, he left without saying a word,
Why bother with words,
Because in the end everyone takes over,
But the poor devil endures,
And as it is a clean fight,
The flanks look like rags.
No one skimps on brine,
When it's another's back, the cut.